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Authors: Edward Lee
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gettin’ beat
up over fish.”
Territorialism, I knew at once. It was more widespread than most
knew; in my own town, lobstering families were known to feud, and
clammers, too. “It’s regrettable, sir. But the proof of your ingenuity has created an
alternate market that I’m sure will prosper.”
“Mmm,” he uttered.
“So I take it this matter of territory
forces you to buy the fish with which you feed your pigs.”
“Naw, that we can catch ourselfs—see, every
night me’n the boy sneak out to the north end’a the Point, throw a
few cast nets, then sneak back right after. We ain’t more’n ten
minutes on the water, then we’re gone. It’s only enough time to
pull up a bucket or two’a bait fish, but that’s all we need for the
swine.”
“Well, at least your system is working,” I
offered.
“Yeah, I s’pose it is.” The man’s young son,
at this point, came to stand by his father. Onderdonk patted his
shoulder. “He works hard for a little shaver, and I want him to
learn right. It’s the American way.”
“Indeed, it is,” I said
and smiled at the boy, but then to Onderdonk I asked, “I happen to
be quite given to pork ribs as well. Are they ever on your menu?”
“Ribs? Aw, yeah, but we only do ‘em twice
weekly. They sell out in a couple’a hours. You come back two days
from now, and we’ll have some up.” He gestured the pig pen. “Soon
the boy’n me’ll be puttin’ Harding in the smoker. Harding’s that
fat ‘un there.”
I presumed me meant the
largest of the pigs. But I had to laugh. “But you haven’t named
your pig after
America’s 29 th president!”
“That I did!” the working man exclaimed.
“And am damn proud of it. ‘S’was Harding’s lollygaggin’ and that
Tea Pot Dome business that done led to the stock market crashin’
and leavin’ all of America the way it is!”
Of this I could hardly argue but was still
amused.
“Took an honest fella—Calvin
Coolidge—to give respect back to the nation’s highest office, yes
sir!” He winked. “Ya won’t see none’a my swine named Coolidge, now.
But in that sty we also got Taft, Wilson, Garner, and that
socialist FDR!”
My. The man certainly had
political convictions, odd for a rough-handed working man. “So,” I
jested. “I’ll return day after tomorrow to sample some of Harding’s smoked
ribs!”
“You do that, sir, and
ya won’t be
disappointed!”
I bade my farewell, then patted the silent
boy on the head and gave him a dollar bill. “A gratuity for you,
young man, for doing such good, hard work for your fine
father.”
“Thank you, sir,” the boy peeped.
“A good day to ya!” Onderdonk reveled, and
then I walked off.
It did my spirits good to see the working
class persevere even in the low economic times. The man was to be
admired. Being unfairly barred from the plentitude of local
fishing, he’d contravened the obstacle, to succeed nonetheless.
Back down the road I strolled, a mixture of
thought now elevating my mood. Certainly, the fine meal, and the
equally fine day; the knowledge that tomorrow I would own a rare
photograph of H.P. Lovecraft; the likelihood of another fine meal
tonight at Wraxall’s Eatery, (for, fresh seafood—even more so than
pork—was an appreciated indulgence) and just the simple
gratification that I was, indeed, walking where Lovecraft once
walked.
And there was one other thing, too, which
founded my elation.
Mary.
Mary Simpson, I mused. So beautiful. So kind and genuine and
hard-working. A uniqueness, even if she had once suffered degradations in
her unfortunate past. Pregnant with no present husband, still she
worked to fulfill her responsibilities. I admitted only now that I
was falling in platonic love with her, and platonic it would have
to remain for I could not fathom anything more, no matter how
urgently I may have wished it.
And I would see her tomorrow for
luncheon.
I spun, my heart bucking in my chest. The
surprise had taken me with
up over fish.”
Territorialism, I knew at once. It was more widespread than most
knew; in my own town, lobstering families were known to feud, and
clammers, too. “It’s regrettable, sir. But the proof of your ingenuity has created an
alternate market that I’m sure will prosper.”
“Mmm,” he uttered.
“So I take it this matter of territory
forces you to buy the fish with which you feed your pigs.”
“Naw, that we can catch ourselfs—see, every
night me’n the boy sneak out to the north end’a the Point, throw a
few cast nets, then sneak back right after. We ain’t more’n ten
minutes on the water, then we’re gone. It’s only enough time to
pull up a bucket or two’a bait fish, but that’s all we need for the
swine.”
“Well, at least your system is working,” I
offered.
“Yeah, I s’pose it is.” The man’s young son,
at this point, came to stand by his father. Onderdonk patted his
shoulder. “He works hard for a little shaver, and I want him to
learn right. It’s the American way.”
“Indeed, it is,” I said
and smiled at the boy, but then to Onderdonk I asked, “I happen to
be quite given to pork ribs as well. Are they ever on your menu?”
“Ribs? Aw, yeah, but we only do ‘em twice
weekly. They sell out in a couple’a hours. You come back two days
from now, and we’ll have some up.” He gestured the pig pen. “Soon
the boy’n me’ll be puttin’ Harding in the smoker. Harding’s that
fat ‘un there.”
I presumed me meant the
largest of the pigs. But I had to laugh. “But you haven’t named
your pig after
America’s 29 th president!”
“That I did!” the working man exclaimed.
“And am damn proud of it. ‘S’was Harding’s lollygaggin’ and that
Tea Pot Dome business that done led to the stock market crashin’
and leavin’ all of America the way it is!”
Of this I could hardly argue but was still
amused.
“Took an honest fella—Calvin
Coolidge—to give respect back to the nation’s highest office, yes
sir!” He winked. “Ya won’t see none’a my swine named Coolidge, now.
But in that sty we also got Taft, Wilson, Garner, and that
socialist FDR!”
My. The man certainly had
political convictions, odd for a rough-handed working man. “So,” I
jested. “I’ll return day after tomorrow to sample some of Harding’s smoked
ribs!”
“You do that, sir, and
ya won’t be
disappointed!”
I bade my farewell, then patted the silent
boy on the head and gave him a dollar bill. “A gratuity for you,
young man, for doing such good, hard work for your fine
father.”
“Thank you, sir,” the boy peeped.
“A good day to ya!” Onderdonk reveled, and
then I walked off.
It did my spirits good to see the working
class persevere even in the low economic times. The man was to be
admired. Being unfairly barred from the plentitude of local
fishing, he’d contravened the obstacle, to succeed nonetheless.
Back down the road I strolled, a mixture of
thought now elevating my mood. Certainly, the fine meal, and the
equally fine day; the knowledge that tomorrow I would own a rare
photograph of H.P. Lovecraft; the likelihood of another fine meal
tonight at Wraxall’s Eatery, (for, fresh seafood—even more so than
pork—was an appreciated indulgence) and just the simple
gratification that I was, indeed, walking where Lovecraft once
walked.
And there was one other thing, too, which
founded my elation.
Mary.
Mary Simpson, I mused. So beautiful. So kind and genuine and
hard-working. A uniqueness, even if she had once suffered degradations in
her unfortunate past. Pregnant with no present husband, still she
worked to fulfill her responsibilities. I admitted only now that I
was falling in platonic love with her, and platonic it would have
to remain for I could not fathom anything more, no matter how
urgently I may have wished it.
And I would see her tomorrow for
luncheon.
I spun, my heart bucking in my chest. The
surprise had taken me with
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